Just One of the Many Times I’ve Ruined Something With My Ass

I’ll get into a lot of these stories later, maybe, but it seems that I’m building a rather large backlog of stories in my life where feces is the central antagonist, and the antagonist wins in a decisive manner. Keeping it short, the past is full of tales like “August 8, 2002,” “Really? The Walls?” and “I Ruined The Couch,” but one of the Hall of Famer times that my ass destroyed a situation happened in early April of 2008.

I drove across the state to visit friends in Pittsburgh, and spent the night drinking with them. Eventually, everyone else passed out or just decided to be a normal human being and go to bed when they felt sleepy. I was offered a couch upon which I could sleep away these early morning hours, wake up refreshed and then spend the day in the company of these good people. Perhaps we would have brunched.

Unfortunately, I got a really strong feeling that I was being haunted. I’m not saying that the house was haunted, but rather that something, perhaps a ghost from the car I’d rented, was haunting me. I felt eyes & a presence upon me. That, coupled with a big fucking dog who was sharing the couch with me and being greedy about the space, compelled me to leave at the crack of dawn, sleepless and likely still hammered drunk. This is not something that people should do, but in the presence of dogs & the supernatural, unorthodox methods are occasionally employed.

Knowing I’d make a stop there eventually, I truncated my plans for the weekend to go to the Monroeville Mall, a Mecca of sorts for a horror fan like myself, as it is the mall where the original Dawn of the Dead was filmed. I made my rounds and found myself almost immediately bored, only recognizing the JC Penney as being largely unchanged from the 1970s horror classic. With that, I figured I’d just grab a hotel room, as a 4 hour drive back to Philly would basically be the same as killing myself. That day, I actually didn’t want to kill myself. Good for that.

I went to the Red Roof Inn, a 5-Star establishment that, to my utter shock, did not have a red roof. The lady at the counter gave me what she considered to be an upgrade by putting me in one of the handicapped-accessible rooms. Basically, this just means that the peephole & light switches are lower, and the bathroom is slightly larger. I thought it silly, but it turned out that having that larger bathroom was a real bonus, as it would be my prison cell for the next 24 hours.

It was strangely similar to this, including the oddly depressing vibe included in this very pic.

It was strangely similar to this, including the oddly depressing vibe included in this very pic.

I drove to the nearest grocery store and picked up some sleeping pills, as I have a very hard time sleeping in unfamiliar places. Then, assured I’d get myself a nice, peaceful rest, I returned to my room and called out for some pizza and wings. This, in the world of fat people, is known as “a feast.” The food arrived, I tipped the driver well, chowed down and watched The Fountain on HBO. The movie didn’t get interesting until the tree gave Hugh Jackman a bukkake treatment. 3 stars.

Not too long after this shot, Hugh Jackman gets covered in Treecum. Hey, at least it's vegan.

Not too long after this shot, Hugh Jackman gets covered in Treecum. Hey, at least it’s vegan.

I took the sleeping pills, which were simply Sominex, the active ingredient being diphenhydramine hydrochloride. If you take sleeping pills and buy them over-the-counter, it’s likely the kind that you take. Now, I might or might not have taken too many of them, as I might or might not be an advocate of the “if 1 works, 10 will really work” theory. As I finished my food and feature film, they began to kick in, but in that unfortunate way that those kinds of sleeping pills do.

See, those sleeping pills kinda work like this: take one or two, and they’ll knock you out for 8 hrs., leaving you a little groggy the next morning but otherwise fine. Then, after a few days of that regimen, they’ll work about as well as any sugar-pill placebo might. So, where some might just sit it out and stay up until they’re exhausted, others will simply take double the dosage, which can make you stupid and useless to the world.

And if you have issues with chemical dependency, get ready for a ride far worse than “It’s A Small World.” After enough of the pills, your entire body will be filled with a nervous energy. Due to the stupor they induce, you can’t really do anything with the energy. You are technically sleepy. But the body has other plans, so it fills you with an overwhelming urge to shake all of your limbs uncontrollably. If this happens to you, you should probably take a trip to the emergency room, as that’s obviously a sign of being poisoned, but most insomniacs are so desperate for sleep that they’ll just endure it. I’ve found that masturbating or wildly swinging weights works to soothe the feeling, just so long as I jump immediately into bed after either action. That means I’m possibly sweaty, possibly caked with my own semen, and possibly landing on whatever is left of my erection, because if you do ANYTHING else, you’re awake again!

But aside from that, one of the major side effects of these sleeping pills, when taken in larger-than-recommended doses, is that it’ll turn your shits into shit juice. It’s a lot like diarrhea, really, except that it’s associated with being a dumb, overdosing piece of shit instead of simply being ill.

Now, add to this the element of my food actually being bad. It went down hard, might have been slightly undercooked and also could have been tainted by foul hands. I can’t be sure, and I’m not interested in being a master sleuth when my ass is blowing out like a water cannon at a peace rally. It was happy to mingle with the sleeping pills, though. This is where hell begins.

The Fountain had just ended when the first urge came. I sprinted for the large, accommodating bathroom and sat about as fast as a man can sit, one of the few things that people rarely time and even more rarely catalog in a database to determine a record-setter. I started shitting before I even sat, which was mildly troubling, but I was put at ease when I saw that everything had come out in, essentially, a focused stream of chunk-laden liquid. A thorough wipe followed, and that would be the end of it.

I then tried to flush the toilet. I pressed the handle, and instead of clearing the cache, I was left with a bowl full of brown. I was more than dismayed, but assumed that I could just go get a plunger from the front office when I woke up. No big deal, right?

Unfortunately, this happened to me over and over again throughout the day. I couldn’t sleep, my body was trembling from the sleeping pills and I’m pretty sure I had food poisoning. With nowhere else to shit, I just added to the bowl, dose after dose of liquid horror. After the 3rd time, I realized that the bowl was going to clog further and perhaps overflow if I kept using toilet paper. Thankfully, I had been given the handicapped-accessible room, and there was a wand attachment to the shower. So I’d shit, run my muddy ass over to the tub and clean off with the wand head acting as a de facto bidet.

This ordeal went on for hours and hours. I watched Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel twice and also watched ten-minute doses of Father of the Bride as I emptied myself into what served as a teaser promo for what Hell would be like, worrying in alternating waves about my lower GI tract and the crippling embarrassment I’d face when the employees of the Red Roof Inn found me out. If I’d stayed with the ghosts and the dog in Pittsburgh, I’d only have been inconvenienced and haunted, which at least would’ve left me with the company of friends. This was a solitary, private pain coupled with bouts of boredom and the simple fretting of a mid-20s guy given time to negatively reflect on what his life had woefully become.

As with any trauma, however, eventually the victims become immune to aspects of the situation, and the embarrassment left me. In 2006, I’d been caught masturbating in the living room by my girlfriend, and that was traumatic…for a little while. But like all pains, it eventually faded. In this case, my fear of being laughed at by motel staff floated off in the wind as I decided that, somehow, I was going to either get the toilet fixed or call the front office and demand to be switched to another room due to a fecal emergency.

I went back into the bathroom, shit out another quart of crapwater and stared at the septic overflow my handicapped bathroom had become. I tried to figure out my quandary, wondered if I could just skip out on the bill altogether, and found no relief for my troubles. Then, I thought, “maybe this is one of those toilets where you have to hold the handle down.” Having just pushed it, nothing was happening, but I hadn’t been insistent with the handle at all. So I crossed my fingers on my right hand and held the toilet handle down with my left.

If only my ordeal had ended with such great cinematography!

If only my ordeal had ended with such great cinematography!

Success! The 500 yards of shit-smelling foulness that Andy Dufresne had to endure in The Shawshank Redemption was nothing more than a shudder-inducing memory now, and though I still spent another four hours miserably shitting my brains out and praying to any God who was listening that this suffering be taken from me, at least the product of my illness was becoming the responsibility of Monroeville’s sewage treatment department. I was making sure that people were able to feed their families with the paychecks coming off of my watery, horrid anus. That provided no comfort or solace at all.

Eventually, I slept. Eventually, I went home. I still take sleeping pills, sometimes to excess, and sometimes I re-enact some of the events that transpired at the Red Roof Inn in Monroeville, PA. But now, I know that toilets have all kinds of personalities, and I’ll engage each one of those personalities before I resign myself to the helplessness of the Circle of Shit. People say “it’s not over ’til it’s over” so casually and frequently that it runs the risk of losing its meaning. But it turns out that people say it so often because, like any cliché, it has a strong basis in truth. And while I’ll almost certainly run into more feces-related trouble in my life, I know now that I can handle it. I can have a fiery ass, so long as I keep a cool head.


About xtopherjacques

I'm an unreliable narrator, which is supposed to be the fun of it. I'd imagine it's a lot more fun to be led off a cliff if it feels like a circus until it happens. Oh, I'm an average guy; I respirate and dream. Here, I'll talk a lot about both. There will likely be too much talk about bodily fluids of varying viscosities for one's liking, but I refuse to change that until it bores me. Thankfully, I also have healthy obsessions with foods (it might get weird), body washes and obscure media. I also talk a lot about my house being haunted and possessed, neither being true. All of those things should keep this all interesting enough. I sure hope so.

Posted on 04/28/2013, in The Complexity of Simple Lives and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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